


To Love A Stark

by nchardak



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13284468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nchardak/pseuds/nchardak
Summary: A series of vignettes surrounding the Stark family. Some headcanons on where the story might go, others are just wishful thinking.





	1. Chapter 1

"Your sister will be married and crowned Queen in King's Landing at the dawn of the new year."

Sansa sat in her solar, back poker-straight, ankles crossed under her chair, just like her mother and septa had taught. She knew where Lord Manderly was going with his rhetoric. 

"Your youngest brother, your only other kin, has run away, north of the ruined Wall, to be King of the Wildlings."

Sunlight shone in through the glass window. It was too far away, but she imagined she could hear the clang of steel from the training yard down below. 

Lord Manderly hesitated, but plunged forward under Sansa's cold gaze, "I will be blunt, my lady. You and your husband have yet to produce an heir. You were married as a ploy to protect yourself from the machinations of Lord Baelish at the height of his power. No-one would blame you for petitioning King Aegon for an annulment. In fact, the lords of the north would support you."

For a moment too long, Sansa was silent. She let Manderly sweat before speaking, "and who would you have me marry?" 

"I - I have a few ideas -"

"A southron lordling? Who would balk at having power consolidated in the hands of a woman? Or a northern man, perhaps? One who sees me as the means to an end, his name forever associated with the Starks? One of your own grandsons? Do you desire power so keenly, my lord Manderly?"

"I mean no disrespect, my lady - "

Sansa rose and moved to the window. A sparrow had built a nest just on the other side of the glass, out of reach of the snow. Three tiny eggs were nestled in the straw and twigs. 

"I know you don't. But you give it."

"My lady -"

"Lord Manderly, I know my husband is from a low-born family, that he is uncouth, vulgar, unsuitable for a Stark, let alone the Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. It is true that we were married under duress, as a desperate attempt to protect myself from Baelish's vile plans for me. And I know that we have yet to bear children, so desperately needed to secure the Stark line. But I will not petition to set him aside. I said my vows before the Old Gods and the New, and he placed his cloak of protection over my shoulders."

The thick walls of Winterfell felt close and hot around her. But Sansa turned to face Manderly as though this conversation were the easiest thing in the world. 

Manderly swallowed heavily, "if that is your final decision."

"I appreciate your concern, Lord Manderly. I suspect your motives aren't entirely selfish. It is, however, the last and only time I will hear word of it from you or any of my other lords. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Good. You may go."

"Yes, my lady."

After Lord Manderly's departure, Sansa found herself restless, too much so to concentrate on the stack of petitions that needed her attention. She pulled on her fur-lined cloak and slipped down, through the castle and out into the yard, where her husband trained with the household guard. She did not stop, but made her way to the Godswood, where she knelt before the heart tree, warm moss under her knees where the hot springs melted the snow. 

A heavy panting drew her from her rote prayers. The direwolf emerged from the brush and approached her. Sansa smiled and held out her hand. 

"Hello, Summer," she said. Summer obediently crouched before her, allowing Sansa to bury her hands the warm fur around his neck. 

She looked back up to the heart tree, then at the wolf. 

"Hello, Bran," she whispered. 

Meera Reed had returned from beyond the wall accompanied only by a direwolf and a strange story meant only for Sansa's disbelieving ears of her younger brother. It took a series of coincidences to convince her that what Meera said was true; her brother was one of the Old Gods now. 

First, a crow had flown up to her in the courtyard of Winterfell, screeching Rickon's name. 

The next day, a contingent of Wildlings came through the gate, led by ten-year-old Rickon. 

Then, she'd dreamed of a tree with Bran's face, and when she woke, Summer had gotten into her chambers somehow, and stood poised over her, while her husband slept on unknowing next to her. 

The wind blew through the leaves of the heart tree whenever she asked it a question. 

And Summer looked at her with her brother's eyes. 

Today, she had no questions to ask of the weirwood. She only wanted the peace and cold and simplicity of the Godswood after the closed-in air of her solar and Lord Manderly's words. 

Her husband made more noise than Summer as he crunched through the snow. 

Sansa didn't turn around, but smiled as he knelt next to her and gave Summer a perfunctory rub, as though he would to the hounds in the kennel. 

"Did that fat fuck's audience give you so much to think about that you came out here?"

Usually, Sansa would chide her husband for his words against her most trusted advisor. She was not feeling quite so charitable today. 

"He and the other lords want me to petition to put you aside before Arya marries."

"And?"

"I told him no."

"Are you sure? You could have a new husband to take down to King's Landing. One a mighty bit prettier than me, to show off to all the courtly cunts."

Sansa sighed, "In spite of everything, Sandor. In spite of your language. I somehow love you."

"Aye, so you've said. I still don't believe it."

She turned to him with a wry smile. He smiled back, but she could see the disbelief in his eyes. She'd indeed married him in a last-ditch attempt at protection that he'd provided, but that practicality had blossomed into something more. If only she could make him see that. 

Sansa kissed him, his lips cold and scarred. 

His hand found its way into her loose hair, pulling her closer. She sighed into the kiss, swallowing his moan. 

When they broke apart, the disbelief in his eyes was replaced by desire. Tonight, when the work was done, they would make love in earnest. 

For now, Sandor broke his gaze to stare at the weirwood's bloody face. 

"So. Another king summons us to King's Landing. We're to watch your bitch of a sister be crowned Queen of these seven kingdoms, against all reason."

"It does defy logic. Don't call her that."

"And to think. Once you thought you'd be the Queen, your every whim catered to. And now you run the whole of the North, and your sister is the spoiled brat."

"If I know Arya, she's resisting every court protocol and Targaryen custom that makes her out to be a mild-mannered princess."

Sandor only chuckled at that, and stood. 

"Come now, my lady. I'll walk you back to the castle. I'm not done beating the green boys into the dirt yet."

Arm in arm, they took their leave. 

Summer watched them, and curled up under the heart tree, content.


	2. Chapter 2

Gone were the dirty dresses of her childhood, the boy's clothes of her youth. In their place were silks and velvets; sumptuous dresses and, when she complained, riding trousers. All daintily embroidered with wolves and dragons. Everything was embroidered with wolves and dragons, even her handkerchiefs. It was wolves and dragons everywhere. Arya didn't know where they'd found the time or the money to tear down all the stags and lions that had encrusted the Red Keep, but time and money had apparently been found. 

It was the final fitting for her wedding dress. The dressmakers swarmed around her, pins sticking out of mouths, needles in hand, so quickly and in such a bustle that Arya could hardly get a glimpse at what the wedding dress was supposed to look like. She'd given the seamstress her head in terms of design, Arya's only input was that it be white and gray and easy to walk in. She'd wear it again for formal occasions. There would be no bedding ceremony to ruin it; she'd see that any man besides Aegon who laid a hand on her would be stabbed through, a statement she made sure to exclaim loudly and as often as possible. 

"Ouch!" she said, a pinprick on her hip disturbing her thoughts of stabbing lordlings. 

The offending seamstress looked stricken, "apologies, my lady."

"It's fine," Arya grumbled.

She stared into the mirror, scarcely believing the chain of events that had led her to this situation. She'd met Aegon just a year ago at Harrenhal, at the court of the Dragon Empress. He'd taken Arya for a stable hand and had thrown her his reins, and she'd promptly let his mare run through the gates in protest. By the time they'd caught the horse, they'd learned each other's identities, and Aegon was smitten and Arya was indifferent. 

It took six months of incessant wheedling and intense courting the likes of which were talked about in ladies' chambers from Dorne to the Wall, but Arya finally agreed to marry Aegon. This required deft political maneuvering on top of the endless gifts from Aegon, as he was supposed to marry Princess Arienne (who had no personal interest in Aegon, which helped) and the irony of a Targaryen spurning a Martell for a Stark was not lost on anyone. 

There were many who disapproved of the match, including Aegon's one-handed Hand, Jon Connington; what was the point of the Targaryen King marrying a Stark when the Empress was already married to one, albeit a bastard? Aegon overruled them all, however, using the arts of diplomacy that Connington had made sure he learn as a boy. The realm needed a strong Queen, he argued, one who will join me on the battlefield and help defend my household in addition to bearing my children. Arya was the only high-born woman who could provide that. 

Finally, the seamstresses carefully lifted the dress over Arya's head, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She eyed her old leathers, but she had a formal retinue to greet, even if it was only her sister. Instead, Arya found her new riding outfit, thick leggings underneath a split skirt. Needle she strapped to her hip, and a little knife she hid up a voluminous sleeve. She was only traveling just outside the gate with a contingent of Targaryen household guard, but it didn't hurt to be prepared. 

There was a knock on her chamber door, and when she answered it, Aegon stood there in all his gold-haired, purple-eyed glory, standing tall and strong in red and black. He was alone. Arya looked from left to right in the hallway to make sure, and pulled him into her chambers by his doublet. 

"Arya!" he exclaimed before she silenced him with a kiss. She was inordinately pleased to have dismissed all of her servants before her fitting, so that they could be alone for just a moment. 

Despite his initial protestations, Aegon returned Arya's kiss with a fervor. Tongues and teeth wound against each other, messy and perfect. Arya's hands made their way into Aegon's hair, and his circlet clattered to the ground. The sound drew them out of their reverie, and Arya pulled back, still looking at his lips and worrying her own. 

"Gods, I've been waiting all week for that."

Bending to retrieve the circlet, Aegon grimaced, "me too. It's been hells on earth, waiting for this wedding."

"Only a week more," sighed Arya, remembering that not long ago she'd barely deign to look at Aegon, let alone pant after him like a lovesick girl. 

"Come on, the guard will be waiting for us in the yard," Aegon said. 

"How did you manage to lose your Kingsguard?" Arya asked as they made their way through the Maidenvault. 

"I was with Rolly. I convinced him to meet us in the yard with the rest of the men," Aegon was smug. 

"You planned to kiss me! You cheeky brat," Arya punched him on the shoulder. 

Aegon winced and rubbed his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. That's the Arya/Aegon I always want to read and can never find. There'll be more where that came from.


	3. Chapter 3

Drogon, Viseryon, and Rhaegal arrived the day before the wedding, landing on the Hill of Rhaenys. They were greeted by half the court; the ones who didn't balk at seeing dragons so close. 

Sandor had almost begged off, but one look at the she-wolf's haughy expression made him change his mind. She expected him to stay behind, and he wouldn't give in to her assumptions. Besides, the three Dragonriders wouldn't let their charges loose flame at the direction of the court. 

He assumed. 

Jon dismounted first and moved to help Daenerys down from her mount. So noble and chivalrous. Sandor wanted to spit. Instead, he found Sansa's hand with his own, hidden as they were under their cloaks. It wasn't necessarily couth to allow such intimacy to be seen, but Sandor was never one for courtly protocol. 

Once Jon's wife was well taken care of, Arya stepped forward, as uncaring for courtly protocol as Sandor, to embrace Jon wildly. Titters of nervous laughter went up from the courtiers who had never seen the two greet each other before. 

And then there was Tyrion. 

The urge to spit returned. 

After greeting the King and his betrothed, as was proper, Tyrion turned to Sansa and Sandor. 

"Good morrow, my former wife," he said jovially. Sandor took a perverse pleasure in the fact that the dwarf was so ugly, but jealousy welled up within him all the same. 

"Good morrow to you, Lord Tyrion," Sansa was amiable. She exchanged letters every so often with the Lannister. They were on friendly terms since their annulment. 

"And you," Tyrion turned and squinted up at Sandor, "I'm to call you Ser Sandor now?"

"Not if you want to keep - " Sandor began, only to be silenced by his wife's slight hand on his arm. 

"Lord Sandor will do," said Sansa. Her smile seemed strained. 

"Not Lord Stark? You didn't take your lady wife's name?"

"And what am I to call you?" Sandor couldn't help but ask, "Last I heard, you don't hold any lands and your place at the Empress' court is defined by your spurious blood and the fact that you can wrangle one of her beasts."

"I've missed your ever-so sharp wit, Clegane."

"Do leave my husband alone," Sansa allowed her shoulders to slump ever so slightly, before raising them back up again to greet Jon and Daenerys as they approached. 

Sandor glared at Tyrion, who smiled benignly back. 

This was going to be a long wedding. 

__

Taking their cue from Sandor and Sansa's wedding, the royal couple said their vows before the High Septon in the Red Keep's Godswood, a compromise that itself had taken no short amount of arguing to achieve. Arya's dress was white velvet lined with gray fur, her maiden's cloak having been her mother's. 

Jon led Arya from the castle to the heart tree, where Aegon waited all in black with red trim, the two of them a series of contrasts. He, with his Dornish skin but pale hair, her with her Northern pale but dark hair. 

"She's grown into such a lovely woman," Sansa whispered, half to Sandor and half to herself. Sandor grunted, but privately agreed. The dirty little urchin who'd once passed for his own son was long gone. 

Aegon stepped aside and took the black cloak from Daenerys' proffered hands, shaking the silk free of wrinkles, and swept it over Arya's shoulders. They clasped hands, and kissed. Then, Arya knelt before Daenerys, who placed a icy white-gold crown atop Arya's braided hair. 

"That could have been you, little bird," Sandor whispered to Sansa as they made their way back to the Red Keep for the feast. 

Sansa knew he wasn't just talking about her once-betrothal to Joffrey. She could have easily pursued Aegon herself. 

"That was another girl, long ago. It suits Arya. As strange as it is to say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bending my own headcanons here a bit. I fully expect Jon, Dany, and Tyrion to die by the end of ADOS, but gosh wouldn't it be cool if they didn't? Anyway, I hope you enjoy and continue to enjoy my silly little stories. If the rating changes, hold on to your butts, smut's a comin'.


	4. Chapter 4 - How Paths Led Us Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time.

"We don't have much time. We must hurry!"

"We have more time than that. This isn't something you should rush, or so I've heard."

Sansa huffed out a sigh and glanced at the door of the hut as though Lord Baelish were about to rush through at any moment. 

Sandor closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what he could possibly say to reassure her - his new wife, that they were safe for the time being. 

Wife. The word ran around his head like a rabid dog. 

Wife. Sansa Stark. 

He was nervous, though he tried not to let it show. The little caged bird had grown up; she was a beautiful, strong young woman. It was her idea to marry; the thought would never have occurred to him in his wildest dreams. She needed some small measure of protection after fleeing the Vale following her aborted marriage to some lordling, dead before they could consummate, at Littlefinger's hand. 

"He wants me for himself," she'd said, her eyes hard, "He's stopped at kisses and touches before, but he won't once the words are said."

"And you prefer me to Baelish?" he'd asked incredulously. Littlefinger was a snake, to be sure, but a good deal more comely than he himself was.

"I prefer you to a great many men," she'd said. 

Sandor hadn't believed her. But it didn't matter. He'd agreed. And now there they were, in his little hut on the Quiet Isle, having just been married by the Elder Brother. 

Wife. 

He sat down heavily next to her. 

"I don't know what I'm doing here, girl."

"You have lain with a woman before?" Sansa asked with a frown. 

"Aye, women I've paid for. I've never lain with a woman I - I - a maid. I don't want to hurt you."

"I expect some pain. It is better than the alternative. We must consummate our marriage for me to be safe."

"You will never be truly safe, little bird."

She looked at him, ice in her veins, "I know this."

There was a moment of silence. 

"May I kiss you?" she asked, hesitant. 

Wondering how his life had led him there, Sandor nodded and leaned towards her. 

Unlike the dry, perfunctory kiss in the Isle's little, ill-tended Godswood, this kiss held promise. Their lips slotted together. Sandor felt Sansa's tongue touch his lower lip gently, on his good side. 

Sandor opened his mouth ever so slightly, deepening the kiss. Sansa gasped into his open mouth, and Sandor swallowed it gladly. The feel of her tongue against his was enough to make his blood rush. He tangled one hand into her hair, pulled her back, looked at her face; pupils blown wide, lips slick and plump, and he dove back in again for more. Dimly, he was aware of movement, and when they broke apart again, Sandor found the laces on her dress undone. 

"I can do that," he chided, "I'm trying to move slowly."

Sansa gave a little smile, "And I'm trying to move quickly," as she spoke, she climbed atop his lap, facing him. 

"We have time," he repeated. But now he could see the top of her teats, and his hand moved almost of its own accord, reaching down past laces and her shift to meet skin. Heavenly, soft skin. Sansa gasped as his hand closed around her breast, and Sandor took the opportunity to kiss her again. This time, she melted into him, her hands making their way up his neck and -

Sandor jerked back as she ran her hands across his scarred face. 

Startled, her eyes widened, "did I hurt you?"

"No," he said, tamping down anger, "no-one's ever touched me there before, and I don't see any reason for anyone to start now."

For a moment, Sansa looked interminably sad, but the look passed, and she carefully threaded her hand into his hair, "take me to bed, Sandor."

Sandor almost forgot about his scars. He kissed her again, this time his hands moved to slide her dress off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. 

He wanted more, to see her fully unclothed, to bury himself in her sweetness, but he could not help but reach out with both hands to cup her breasts in his hands. She gasped again, and he groaned, wondering if she could feel his hardness through his breeches and her skirts. 

He let her take off his tunic, hoping the light in the hut wasn't enough for her to see all of his scars. Not that it mattered, anyway, with her inches from his ruined face. 

Her hands left trails of goosebumps over his back as Sansa pushed her chest into his for another kiss. His hands found her waist and he reluctantly pulled away, lifting her up and away from his lap. He felt cold without the intense heat he hadn't even been aware of until it was gone. 

Wordlessly, he pulled on her skirts, letting them fall to the floor. Her smallclothes were deftly untied and stepped out of. Vaguely, Sandor was aware that his jaw was slack as he stared at her, drinking her in. She was perfect. More beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen, let alone laid with. He felt himself growing more and more hesitant, but he reached out for her all the same, as though she were an apparition that might disappear at any moment. 

Sansa herself was blushing, but she kept from covering herself. She caught his hand as it reached for her, and wrapped it around her waist, letting herself be pulled towards to bed. 

"Gods," Sandor breathed, "I don't deserve this. You don't. Deserve this, I mean. You need someone comely and kind, not me, not this." He waved at himself in disgust. 

"Don't tell me what I deserve," Sansa said, "I'm here with you, and I need you," she stopped, eyes looking down demurely, "I - I want you, Sandor."

Sandor swallowed audibly. He had never been a good man. And it would take a much better man than him to turn down what was offered.

He kissed her again, pushing her backwards until her head met the pillow. Shifting, her drank in her body again, letting his gaze fall between her legs. Placing both hands on her knees, he spread her open and pushed his face into her. Sansa cried out then, as he let his tongue play over her folds. 

Sandor had no idea what he was doing. This was something he'd only heard about, never tried. But it was good, so good, feeling her wetness leak into his mouth. Her hands found their way into his hair again, but this time he let her fingers play over scarred skin. She alternated pushing herself into his mouth and trying to pull back, but Sandor would not stop until his face was soaked. He rose to his knees and looked at her, skin shiny with sweat and breasts heaving. Wordlessly, his hand went to the laces of his breeches, letting his cock fall free. He gave it a few pumps, just looking at her. At his wife. 

She reached down and grabbed his wrist, "wait," she said, "can you - with your fingers first? I've heard it doesn't hurt as much." 

Dumbly, he nodded, letting go of his cock to reach between her legs with one hand. 

He almost grabbed his cock again when he felt how tight she was. "Gods, girl. You're a maid for true."

"Did you doubt me?"

"No, I only -"

She placed a finger on his lips to silence him and laid back down, letting him work. 

He was thoroughly unpracticed at this as well, and he cursed himself that he'd never learned anything from any of the whores he'd been with. Some men went to expensive pleasure houses to learn how to please their lady wives, but Sandor had only inflicted his face on the women of cheap brothels. He'd only gone for quick fucks, and since he'd never thought to have a lady wife to please, he'd never thought it important to learn how to please a woman. 

He seemed to be doing alright, though. He slid in one finger first, feeling Sansa stretch to accommodate him. When he pulled it out, there was only a little blood. This he wiped on the sheet before he went back in, two fingers this time. All the while, Sansa gripped her pillow and bit her lip, letting out the rare moan that could only be pleasure, not pain. 

Finally, he lined himself up, relishing the feel of his cock on her impossibly soft skin. 

He looked into her crystalline blue eyes, "is this alright?" 

She nodded, taking both sides of his face in her hands, kissing him. He pushed in, and was instantly almost blinded by pleasure that wracked him to his core. Sansa gave a shuddering gasp and one hand found purchase in his hair, the other on his shoulder, her legs wrapping around him. He began to move, and he buried his face into her sweet-smelling hair, never wanting this moment to end as he drove in and out of her. Of his wife. His wife. 

Sansa was moaning prettily underneath him, her nails raked against his skin and he pushed in, hard, as she intoned, "Oh, Sandor..." 

Desperately he tried not to finish, but between his name on her lips and her impossibly soft tight warmth surrounding him, it was no use. He let himself go, his release blinding him as he thrust into her in short, abortive movements. Dimly, he was aware of grinding her name out several times, like a prayer. 

When he returned to himself, Sansa was smiling up at him. He pulled himself out of her and laid next to her on the small bed. He'd never kept a woman in his bed afterwards, either, but he pulled her to him and she rested her head on his chest. She seemed content enough. 

"Thank you, Sandor," she said. 

"What are you thanking me for?" He asked, "I should be thanking you. Hells, I should be on my knees begging for your forgiveness."

She only giggled. Sandor wanted to ask what was so funny, but just then he was too tired to argue. 

"Get some sleep, little bird. We leave at first light."

"Good night, Sandor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing het smut, so go easy on me.


	5. Chapter 5 - Arya's Prologue, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My vignettes are becoming more and more confusing, and I apologize. 
> 
> This doesn't quite fit with the theme of the rest of the story, but we'll get back to the romance soon enough.

_My name is Arya Stark._

But it wasn't true. 

And every day that brought her further away from Winterfell and Ramsay it became less and less true. 

They'd gone to the Wall first, to Castle Black, Jeyne filled with dread with every step of her horse's feet. Jon would know. Jon would announce that she was just Jayne Poole, the Steward's daughter, and then she'd be sent back to Stannis or maybe even to Ramsay.

But when they arrived at Castle Black, Jon was dead.

Jeyne could not summon up the tears to fool Justin Massey, but her shock was genuine enough. 

Ser Justin did not quite know what to do with her then, but he eventually settled on taking her on to Braavos with the rest of the company, so it was to Eastwatch they went, boarding one of Stannis' sellsword ships that would take her away from Westeros. 

It was on the ship that she first heard about the House of Black and White. 

"My mother," an Ibbenese man was telling his Braavosi companion in the bastardized Common tongue of Westeros that was their only shared language, "she dies slowly, in much pain. The Healing Man says she has lump in stomach that cannot be cut out."

"Valar morghulis," said the Braavosi, "if there is nothing to be done for her, take her to the House of Black and White, yes? They have a potion there that will bring death, painless and as sweet as anything. My own grandfather went to pay his due to the Many-Faced God after he broke his spine."

The thought consumed Jeyne's every waking moment. Her nights, well, those were for dreams of Ramsay, and every morning Jeyne would wake in her little cabin in a cold sweat, tears seeping into her ragged pillow. 

Once in Braavos, it was easy to slip away from Ser Justin. He was busy with Tycho Nestoris and the Iron Bank, staying away from the inn until late at night. The night before they were due to sail back to Eastwatch, Jeyne took her chance. 

The city was vast and confusing, and more than once Jeyne asked for directions in broken Valyrian half remembered from lessons with Maester Luwin. Finally she stumbled on an old woman who took pity on her and took her by the arm. 

The House of Black and White stood on a knoll overlooking the harbor. It was a great, forbidding building on a little spit of rocky land. The old woman led her to the stairs leading up to the doors, bowed, and said "valar dohaeris."

Jeyne took the steps slowly, not realizing she was crying until she reached the top. She did not want to die, but behind her was Ramsay. And she would never go back. 

The white weirwood door opened much easier than she'd thought it would, moving on silent hinges. Inside, it took her a moment for her eyes to adjust. 

There were more people than she'd thought there would be in the surprisingly small room. About a half-dozen men and women sat praying at the statues of different, strange gods that lined the walls. 

She found the Stranger easily enough and knelt before it. 

Jeyne looked up into the dark blankness of the Stranger's hood and found herself without words. She'd never prayed to the Stranger before, only to Mother and the Maiden. She knew no prayers to the god of death. 

"Please," she whispered, "let me be rid of him."

Suddenly she was aware that someone had sat down next to her, quiet as a shadow and quick as a snake. 

It was a girl, a little younger than Jeyne herself. She was dressed in robes of black and white. She had the face of - 

_This is a dream. I am dreaming._

"What is your name?" Jeyne asked. 

"I am no one. Who do you wish to be rid of?"

Jeyne choked on the name, but it came out just the same, "Ramsay Bolton."

"Why?"

Slowly, like a maester pulling venom from a snakebite, Jeyne spilled her pain out to this girl, this girl that looked so much like who she was supposed to be. She told the girl everything, from what she endured at the hands of Petyr Baelish, to seeing Jon Snow's body laid out on a table. Jeyne told her of Justin Massey, waiting at the inn, and of the ship that would leave on the morrow. When she was done, the girl rose, went to the little black pool in the center of the room, and drew a cup of water, returning. 

"Drink, if you wish it."

"I do wish it." 

The drink was cool and refreshing, without any bitterness she might have expected. Gently, the girl took the cup from Jeyne. 

"Valar morghulis, Jeyne Poole of Winterfell."

Jeyne did not know what to say. She felt warm, like she was curled up under a thick fur by the fire. Warm and tired. She lay down on the stone floor underneath the watchful gaze of the Stranger.

"Thank you," she whispered. And she hurt no more. 

Hours later, in the dead of night, a girl wearing Jeyne Poole's face slipped out of the House of Black and White. She found a loose stone on the steps of the temple and pried it loose, taking what she found there, before making her way into the center of town.


End file.
